


Reciept of Resignation

by Musings_of_a_Monster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Suicide, i'm bound to edit this later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster
Summary: Javert has one last task to perform as an officer of the law: guiding a blind man to the police station.





	Reciept of Resignation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AutumnGracy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnGracy/gifts).



> For autumngracy on Tumblr in response to this post: http://autumngracy.tumblr.com/post/134340717690/somebody-give-me-a-fix-it-fic-where-javert-is  
> You can blame her for everything.

Javert found himself on the parapet above the Seine. This was confusing not because he didn’t recall being there—he most certainly did—but because he had also thought that he _also_ remembered having already jumped. There lay his hat, which he had set aside before. He did not pick it up and prepared, again, to jump.

“Hello? Hello?” a voice cut across the night air with a ringing clarity that seemed indefinably atypical. Javert turned and saw an elderly man in painfully white robes marking him as a man of the cloth. He was carrying a cane, but not leaning on it as much as probing his surroundings with it.

Though he could not have said why, the man who would invoke to most minds the image of a wolf or a mastiff or a tiger suddenly emulated the rabbit and froze. Javert did not want an audience. Much less a man of God. Javert was not ignorant regarding the church's stance on self-destruction. This form of resignation, however necessary and just, would shock and appall. He would wait until he was alone.

“Hello?” the curé (though Javert was somehow unsure that was the right title...and had a niggling notion another would be more appropriate) called again, “Is there anyone there? Is there no one to help a poor, blind fool?”

_Blind_? Javert descended onto the dry bridge. The Seine wasn’t going anywhere, and an elderly blind man—even a holy one—was not safe to wander the streets of Paris at night. “Monsieur le curé,” Javert said, “do not be alarmed, I am an officer.” He _was_ , until his letter was read. “How may I assist you?”

The curé shifted his head in the direction of the voice. He stood and waited for Javert to respectfully take an arm. “Oh, bless you, monsieur!” (Javert repressed a wince.) “Would you be so kind as to escort me to the police station? I am a bit lost. I am not from around here, you see.”

“Of course. But where is your guide, monsieur? How is it that you were left here alone?” Someone had surely shirked their responsibilities toward this venerable man, and that greatly disagreed with the inspector.

“We were separated,” the cure said with a smile, “but if you would take me to the station, I will find her again shortly.”

They must have agreed to meet at the police station if they lost each other. A sensible plan. Javert nodded (though he realized the curé could not see the gesture) and began to lead the old man along.

“I am glad to have met you,” said the curé, “but is it not rather late? Or am I disrupting you from your patrol?”

“You are not,” Javert said, “And, monsieur, if I were on patrol, I would be within my duties to assist you. You disrupt nothing.”

The curé nodded, still smiling, “I am most fortunate to have been found by so considerate and responsible an officer! You must take great pride in your job.”

“I used to.” The statement that came out of Javert’s own mouth shocked him so much that he nearly missed a step. He hadn’t meant to say that, he was certain.

“Oh? What changed that, monsieur?”

Javert was silent. Which was rude, but he didn’t know what to say in response. His face began to heat in discomfort.

“My apologies,” said the curé, turning his smile up again toward Javert, “You need not answer such a nosey question.”

“No,” Javert choked, “It is a natural one.” He took a breath, “I am ashamed to admit it, but you see, monsieur le curé, I have faltered." He tried to silence himself, but his mouth would not cooperate. "I have failed in my responsibilities. This will be my last night as an officer. I am resigning.” Javert had not meant to say all _that_. He thought this is what it must have been like to be drunk. To spill yourself into the ears of another like a damned idiot. He felt guilty for being relieved the curé was blind and unable to see the redness beneath Javert’s brown face.

The curé hardly missed a beat, “Was this failure really so severe as to warrant your resignation?” His tone did not match the words. It was open and friendly.

“Yes,” Javert grit his teeth, but could not stop the words that followed, “I have disgraced my uniform and myself. The entirety of my career has been found worthless. I am lost, and there is no other just way but to remove myself.” He did not like how often his own voice was surprising him that night. What was _happening_ to him?

“My brother, there was but One who was never lost in life. No man is beyond finding his way again.”

Javert was silent.

“You speak of justice, but what of mercy?” the curé continued.

“I have not afforded mercy to anyone else. If I allowed it for myself, that would be the greatest injustice in the world.” Javert had, at least, spoken those words fully of his own conscious volition.

The curé cocked his head very slightly, “I cannot say I believe either statement is true, but it is not my place to judge you.

“However, I will say that I once knew a man who had fallen quite far before he was offered mercy. What a shame he had not been offered it earlier! It would have spared him and others much suffering. All the same, he found it within himself to become a great man after he managed to forgive of himself what others would not. He went on to bring much good to a society that had treated him with great cruelty.”

The wolf loosed his tiger laugh, “I knew such a man! And I was one who would not forgive. There lies the truth: after denying him mercy, I cannot grant it to myself.”

The curé nodded with a sage serenity. “Ah. There is but one thing to be done then, monsieur. It must be some one _else_ to grant this mercy to you.”

“I would not have it,” Javert said.

“Very well! Then it must come from the Source of all Justice, and then you could not deny it.”

Javert flared his nostrils in a repressed snort. “If Justice granted Mercy, then I would accept it. But Justice does not, and so I will not.” No, Justice never granted Mercy. Whatever thing beyond duty Javert had done that night, it _wasn't_ Justice.

Again, the curé turned his smile up to Javert, “We shall see.”

It did not take them long to reach the police station. Just outside the door, several gendarmes were talking amongst themselves. Javert made a face when not one of them greeted either himself or the curé. Javert couldn’t have been more insulted if he’s been spit on. He would make damn sure these men were dealt with later.

“Monsieur le curé has been separated from his guide—” Javert’s words trailed off in absolute astonishment and disgust. The gendarmes were _still talking_. “Your _attention_ , officers!”

The curé patted Javert’s arm in a way that would have been condescending were it done by someone of lesser age or station, “Monsieur, they do not perceive us.”

“They will momentarily,” his voice was at least as terrible as it was quiet.

“Oh, no. They cannot.”

For several heartbeats, Javert's mouth twitched without actually making a sound. “I—wh—for—” he stuttered. Javert did _not_ stutter.

“Has monsieur forgotten the river?”

The only reason that Javert realized his knees had given way beneath him was because of the impossible strength he felt the other man use to help Javert to the ground rather than let him fall. But why should he have lost his ground? Why should he feel so cold? Simultaneously so heavy and so hollow? Had he not decided to tender his resignation of his own free will? Was it not just that he be punished however God saw fit?

Why should he now be so horrified?

The curé had at some point knelt in front of Javert. The old man’s smile had not wavered. “The man I spoke of before, he once felt as you did now. I would not tell you such a private story except that I know that you already know of Petit Gervais, and I also know that Jean Valjean would tell you himself if he were here. There are things a man does in one moment that he finds agreeable only in that moment. The shock and the horror come later.”

“There is no reason I should feel such a way,” Javert said, his voice rasping. But that was not true, he realized, as the gravity of his final actions began to sink in.

“And yet, my brother, you do.” The curé patted Javert's arm again. "But never mind. You'll be alright."

“Who are you?”

“In life I was the Bishop of Digne,” the man said, “now, I am a light that seeks out others. And tonight, I have sought out you, Inspector Javert.”

The Bishop of Digne! The entirety of the universe had ceased to make any logical sense to Javert. “I don’t understand.”

The bishop beamed, “You do not have to!”

Javert wiped his face with his hands. When he opened his eyes again, he and the bishop were in a field of autumn-golden grass.

Javert's first impression was that it did not look like any description of Hell that Javert had ever heard. He was disgusted and ashamed of the _relief_ he felt at that, but there was no denying it.

The bishop pointed behind Javert, “What is it that you see there?”

Javert turned around, and a building stood about fifty yards away. It was a multi-storied building of gray stone. Though few people would have called it beautiful, there was a sense of elegance and dignity to it. “A stone building. I see no sign or insignia.”

“Ah,” the bishop nodded, “That must be the hospital.” He stood and offered Javert a hand. Javert took it and rose. “Most suicides go there for a time. I have visited souls there before. The work they do is good, and it is not an unhappy place.”

“This is my judgement then?” Javert asked, with some skepticism, “To be hospitalized?”

“I suspect so. For now. One does not stay there forever.”

“I am to have mercy then,” Javert’s voice was flat. _At the price of my humiliation_ , he did not say, but he had seen the inside of such institutions before. More than one victim of terrible crimes ended up in such a place, and their state had still inspired in him horror and pity after he had become largely numb to even the scene of a murder. That, Javert imagined, could be a Hell. But it wasn't eternal, and therefore, it was Mercy.

The bishop spread his hands. “This is the Judgement of God. He who is the Source of all Mercy and all Justice. If you wish to defy it—"

Javert shuddered.

"—I have not heard of any gates or fences here. Nothing is stopping you from walking away. You would not be the first soul to choose to wander, and there will still always be the opportunity to change your mind.” Leaning on his cane, the bishop continued, “However, would you be so gracious as to lead _me_ to the hospital? My guide waits there.”

While he had been aware that the Bishop of Digne had lost his sight in his twilit years, it was surprising to Javert to learn that his lordship had not regained it in Heaven. But the inspector hardly thought it was his business to inquire after. Rather, he offered his arm again. How could he do anything else? “Of course, monsignor.”

With the bishop at his arm, Javert did not waver or tarry. He held himself straight, and though he allowed himself his typical habit of withdrawing most of himself into his uniform, the absence of his hat somewhat diminished the effect.

Within the entryway, two women stood. One a near ethereal being who bore enough likeness to the bishop to clearly be a relative. The other a stout and earthy woman that reminded Javert for all the world of the trunk of a hardy fruit tree. Javert could not have said why the comparison occurred to him, but he could not deny the aptness now that the thought had come.

“Monsignor,” the second woman said in a tone that was very nearly scolding, “Leaving without your sight, alone! Monsignor!” she said again, “Why did you not ask myself or mademoiselle to accompany you?”

“But I had no need,” said the bishop, patting Javert’s arm, “This good man escorted me to both the police station and the hospital.” Turning to Javert, the bishop said, “Inspector, this is my friend, Magloire, and I would be astonished if my sister, Baptistine, was not with her. Ladies, this is Inspector Javert.”

Reaching to remove his hat, not finding it, and feeling a bit foolish, Javert dipped his head in the women’s direction. They responded in like, minus the fumbling for absent articles of clothing.

“Monsieur,” Magloire said with absentminded acknowledgement, taking the bishop’s other arm. Javert released the one he held. The woman muttered something about _the death of me_ , but Javert stopped listening as soon as he realized the words were not directed at him.

He bowed low in his guide’s direction, “Thank you, Monsignor le Bishop. I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense,” the bishop said, making the sign of the cross over Javert, “God’s blessing upon you and your healing, my brother.”

Javert turned, put his hand to the door, and entered.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding Javert's psychological shift toward the end when reflecting on his suicide, I did this for two reasons. One, it better mirrored Valjean's Petit Gervais incident. Two, sometimes when a person's suicide attempt has been interrupted there is a moment of "what did I almost just do?" It doesn't mean their battle with suicidal ideation is over, but there is occasionally a moment of (for lack of a better word) clarity that lasts at least a few minutes.
> 
> EDIT: Minor revisions as of 4/25/19. Older versions available on request, if you really hate the revisions, I guess?


End file.
